


Six at Sunrise

by Galythia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All The Tropes, Angst, CAS CRYING IN THE RAIN, Domestic Fluff, Double Pining, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining!Cas, Roommates, drunk!Dean, misunderstandings galore, pining!dean, rom com, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galythia/pseuds/Galythia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>For someone with a PhD, he was so damn stupid and nearsighted. Lonely little nerdy assistant professor of religion, Castiel Novak, trying to win the heart of the gorgeously tan, funny and brilliant classic car restoration artist, Dean Winchester. Anyone who read the back cover summary of that book would have known from the start it wasn't going to be a happy ending.</em>
</p><p>A fic in which Dean and Cas both have great intentions, infinite love, and very, <em>very</em> bad communication skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperation At Its Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/gifts).



> This is a present for the lovely [Mary_Twist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Twist), whose birthday just passed a few days ago. She is amazing, and I hope this little token can even begin to express just how much I appreciate her awesomeness. This fic doesn't do her nearly enough justice, and it's also extremely cliché and full of tropes—purposefully so. 
> 
> This has a good ending, though I was highly tempted to make it a tragedy.

Castiel pulled the pie out of the oven and placed it on the rack to cool, glancing at the clock on the stove as he did so. 6:47 PM. Dean was already over thirty minutes later than usual. Castiel frowned and took his phone out of his pocket, checking for messages. Nothing. Slipping it back with a sigh, Castiel nervously fidgeted around the kitchen, washing up the rest of the bowls and spoons he'd used to bake his confectionary masterpiece. Dean was probably just stuck in traffic. Or held up at work. Or had an errand to run before coming home. Yeah. That was it.

6:55. Castiel sat down at the table and stared at his phone, wishing the screen would just light up once. He swallowed anxiously. As Dean's flatmate and best friend (ugh, _friend_ ), Castiel had the right to worry like this, right? He definitely wasn't nervous because of something stupid and trivial, like how this was maybe the dinner he'd planned on _confessing_ or anything. Nope. Roommates took time off of work to spend hours cooking each other's favorite foods all the time.

Castiel had worked himself into a sorry state by the time 7:15 rolled around. He glanced at the table before him, which he'd even set with a tablecloth of Dean's favorite shade of blue, a step up from its usual bare, slightly scuffed mahogany. The spread on top was like a miniature gourmet feast. There were Castiel's special double bacon burgers, the patties stuffed with three types of cheese for the best oozing bite, the buns toasted on the griddle with sweet maple cream butter. There were slightly spicy homemade fries, double fried for the extra crisp. Castiel even made the ketchup himself, because he'd done it once three years ago, back when he'd first moved in with this gorgeous roommate, and Dean had expressed his liking toward it ("Making your own ketchup is a bit weird, but hey, this is friggin' fantastic, so whatever floats your boat, Heinz."). Ever since that day, Castiel had hung onto Dean's every word as if it were his very own Bible.

You could say that Castiel fell fast.

And now, this very dinner was the culmination of three years as roommates and friends, two years as a bad sitcom, i.e. the sad awkward gay guy with an unrequited love for his probably straight playboy roommate. But Castiel had bid his time, had continued with life as usual for the two years he'd known he was stupidly in love with this beautiful man. In fact, he would have been perfectly content (most of the time) with Dean never knowing—except for the fact that recently, Castiel had been starting to pick up hints that maybe Dean wasn't as straight as the air he generally exuded. Castiel had, after all, never thought to ask, and Dean had never actually mentioned his sexuality in any conversation Castiel could recall.

Plus, Dean had been doing little things recently that made Castiel think, like winking at him over some mundane comment or checking hips with Castiel as he washed the dishes. Then again, he also hadn't asked Castiel to go be his wingman at a bar for the better half of the past year, had started to hang out with Charlie a lot more (sometimes over hanging out with Castiel, but Cas wasn't petty), and had started to fall silent or become hedgy over certain topics, as if he were keeping some serious secrets. But Castiel figured he was overthinking things. His irrational fear that Dean would leave him one day was probably just making him read into things too much. Overall, winking and hip-checking counted as flirtation, right?

So there was hope. And that was bad.

That was bad because it was 7:28 now, over an hour later than usual, and Dean still wasn't home. He hadn't missed a Friday movie night in five weeks, which was why Castiel had picked tonight of all nights to do this. He'd tried not to worry like a mother hen, not to fret over Dean because he was his own man and was capable of making his own decisions. But then there were flashing red and blue lights along the wall opposite from the window, and the sound of a siren wailing past outside.

Castiel's stomach dropped to the floor.

He grabbed his phone quickly from the dining table, chiding himself, because if Castiel had just been sitting here, angsting over his unrequited pains while Dean was in trouble or hurt somewhere, Castiel would never forgive himself. He was so stupid for not having thought of that possibility before. Images of Dean's baby twisted around a pole or Dean's body bleeding out in some dark and decrepit alley flashed into Castiel's mind, and he was almost tempted to put on his coat and go outside to find Dean himself, just to make sure. But he forced himself to sit, deciding to call instead of text to strike a compromise. He'd try to sound casual just in case it was nothing, as if it wasn't like Castiel was having a sudden (likely overreactive) panic attack with images of the possible love of his life dying somewhere out there. Alone. Cold. Scare—

Castiel forced himself to stop. He pressed down on Dean's name next to the photo of his smiling face and waited for Dean to answer, biting his lip in nervousness.

"Cas?" Castiel had been about to give up on the seventh ring when Dean's voice finally flooded through the receiver, and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said with a smile, swallowing and trying to still his erratically racing heart. Dean had always told Castiel he had a tendency to overreact, to fret and worry, but Dean had also once said that it was endearing. So Castiel figured that was an okay trait to have.

"You okay there?" Dean asked, voice a little tense, which Castiel pegged as worry. How sweet.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," Castiel assured Dean, swallowing again. He needed some water. "Where are you?" Castiel asked, licking at his perpetually chapped lips.

"Where am I?" Dean asked, confused. "I'm uh—"

And that was when Castiel heard it. It was muted, but it was also purring and sweet. An unmistakable "babe?" from a woman, whining and cloying. Castiel's stomach dropped again.

"Oh," Castiel said, voice tensing a little bit despite his best efforts to remain calm. "Are you... are you with someone right now? I'm sorry," Castiel murmured, suddenly feeling so stupid for having overreacted so much. Of course Dean wasn't injured or dying. Being late by over an hour on the one night of the week that he'd promised to Castiel didn't mean he was mortally wounded. He was just with a woman. On their movie night.

That was okay. Yep.

"No, Cas, it's cool," Dean assured quickly. It followed by a muffled but audible "Shhh, just hold on a sec," all tender and sweet, which pierced right through Castiel's heart. He'd called at the worst time—for both of them.

"Did you want something?" Dean asked, back to the phone now, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat, and Castiel had to wonder if that was because of all the moaning and growling he was likely doing.

_I want you_ , Castiel would have replied, were this the ideal rom-com. But despite the thundering rain outside that was ripe for a Nicholas Sparks movie, Castiel lived in the real world, the one in which he really was one of the unfortunate people to be in love with someone who would never love him back. This phone call alone was all the proof Castiel needed from the universe, all the cosmic irony he required in order to know.

"N-No," Castiel stammered out, growing flushed and woozy. Darn those stupid spicy fries for making him tear up like this. "I was just... never mind." Castiel wished he could say more, but this situation was just too much right now. He hoped Dean would forgive him. "I'm sorry for interrupting. I, uh... I hope you have a good time, Dean. Good bye."

There was a quick "Cas, wait—" as Castiel hung up, but Castiel was pretty sure he'd probably imagined it. Or maybe Dean wanted to tell him not to wait up tonight. No worries. Castiel wasn't going to sit around moping with this stupid dinner anymore anyway. He already felt foolish enough with the hour and a half he'd already wasted. He should have known better. He really should have known better.

With numb slowness, Castiel turned off his phone completely and slid it back in his pocket before proceeding to clean up. He debated saving the food as leftovers for Dean in case he got hungry whenever he came home (if he came home at all), but it got too painful to look at the dishes for too long. So he tossed them all, sliding the burgers into the trash and placing the dishes in the sink. He almost broke one when his grip, loose and numb, nearly slipped.

In the end, the only thing Castiel kept was the pie, which he covered up in tinfoil and placed in the fridge. Even with all that pain, wasting any amount of pie would be sacrilegious in this household. Dean would want to eat it anyway, no matter the circumstances. He didn't need to know the amount of work that went into it or the reasoning behind it. He'd just eat and tell Castiel it was delicious, and then Castiel would nod with a smile and say thank you. The usual. The same as always.

With more violent finger flicks than necessary, Castiel switched off all the lights and then flopped down on his bed, facedown into the pillow. Castiel's vision was blurring up, but luckily that didn't matter when one was shrouded in darkness. He was just so _frustrated_ at himself for having hoped, for having allowed himself to be so stupid as to think this could have in any way worked out for the better. For someone with a PhD, he was so damn stupid and nearsighted. Lonely little nerdy assistant professor of religion, Castiel Novak, trying to win the heart of the gorgeously tan, funny and brilliant classic car restoration artist, Dean Winchester. Anyone who read the back cover summary of that book would have known from the start it wasn't going to be a happy ending.

What a ripe mess it was.

Castiel snuggled further into his bed, face squirming against the pillow, wishing the whole thing would just swallow him up. His heart felt so heavy that he swore it was miles below him somewhere, likely being burned up by the Earth's core, judging from the sheer pain alone. He berated himself for his hopefulness, for his own biases coloring events that were likely no different than usual. Castiel had just wanted it so badly for so long that his mind had been twisting events.

He was so tired of being alone.

And so, for the first time in seven and a half years, Castiel Novak cried. And like the epitome of a pitiful, rom-com scene, he cried himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Castiel woke up with a start. His head felt heavy and his eyes droopy, but he shook it all away quickly because he'd heard a sound at the door. Rubbing his eyes to clear his vision, Castiel glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 3:12 AM.

Sliding out of bed cautiously, Castiel slipped his feet into his slippers—or he would have, had he not already fallen asleep with them on. He turned on the lights and glanced down at his body, frowning at how utterly pitiful he looked, with the rumpled clothing he'd never gotten the chance (or motivation) to change out of.

Castiel smoothed his hands down his shirt a few times before stepping out of his door and heading down the hall, tentatively calling out, "Dean?" He cleared his throat, voice still hoarse and mind still a bit groggy from sleep—or from all that crying. Maybe both.

"Casss!" Dean shouted, slurring the "s"s at the end in a way that immediately betrayed the state of his inebriation. Castiel rounded the corner only to find himself with a sudden armful of Dean, smelling like whisky and perfume, stabbing Castiel right through the heart yet again.

"Casssss," Dean repeated, stumbling back a bit so that the was smiling at Cas. "How's my favorite nerrrrd doin'?"

Castiel frowned at Dean, reaching out to grab him again when he was tilting dangerously backward. "Dean, I haven't seen you this drunk in years," Castiel said disapprovingly. Dean hadn't been this way ever since his breakup with Lisa. "What's gotten into you?"

Castiel assisted Dean over to the couch, where he was unceremoniously dropped down in favor of Castiel going to get him some water. Castiel returned only to find Dean in the middle of some slurred explanation.

"... her nipple, and then—"

"That's more than enough," Castiel said immediately, not wanting to hear any more of where that was going. He froze when he saw the lipstick dotting Dean's neck, one partial imprint even on the collar of his t-shirt. Castiel would probably have to wash that out later, since Dean couldn't do specialized laundry beyond separating whites and darks to save his life.

Clearing his throat and forcing himself to look away, Castiel sat down beside Dean and handed him the glass. "Drink up," he said patiently.

"No," Dean pouted. "Not until you listen to my storyyy."

Oh, brother.

"I am not going to listen to that story no matter what you say," Castiel said, patient but serious. "Now please, stop being difficult and drink up."

Dean stared at Castiel for a bit and then decided the best move was to slump against him, almost causing Castiel to spill the water. "Make me," Dean whined.

Castiel was not amused.

After several deep breaths, Castiel finally shoved Dean back to an upright sitting position, supported by the back of the couch. He held the glass out and said, "Open your mouth and swallow, okay? If you drink this whole glass, I'll consider listening to your story." He wouldn't, of course, because no matter how patient he was, he wasn't some saint. He had his own heart, and it was already quite broken. But he'd take things one problem at a time.

Dean considered this offer for a sec before turning to beam at Castiel, so simple to please. "Okay," he said, nodding vigorously but with clear effort. That was enough for Castiel. He tipped the glass slowly, leaning it on Dean's bottom lip and letting Dean take little sips of it, holding Dean's head to keep it steady. The proximity gave Castiel the strongest whiff of cheap perfume yet, the perfect reminder of what Dean had been doing instead of having a home-cooked dinner and watching Star Wars with him. Maybe this was the beginning of the end of their golden era. Dean was moving on.

Castiel was trying hard not to cry again.

When Dean swallowed down the last drop, Castiel set the glass down. Onto the next problem: getting Dean into bed.

"Story time?" Dean asked, blinking at Castiel. He sidled closer, almost nuzzling against Castiel, cheek on Castiel's shoulder and whisky breath ghosting over his neck—none of which Castiel needed right now.

"Bed time," Castiel replied, getting up and dislodging Dean in one go. "Come on," he urged, reaching out to help Dean up as well. But Dean crossed his arms, giving Castiel a highly immature stubborn pout.

"Stories always come before bed time," he argued, as if that were the most sound logic in the world. Castiel stared at the ground for a moment and made up his mind.

"Fine," he replied, already regretting his decision. He was pretty sure his heart couldn't handle hearing about whatever Dean was doing with some woman's nipple, but whatever. Dean needed him right now, needed to get to bed. Everything else was secondary. Dean would always be first priority to Castiel, his own emotional wellbeing be damned. It was already shot to pieces after tonight anyway, so what were a few more bullets here and there?

Dean's face lit up like a Christmas tree at Castiel's acceptance, and he wasted no time in launching into his story. "So I was at work," he began, "and then this _bangin'_ hot chick..."

Castiel staunchly tried his best to tune Dean out as he picked Dean up by the underarms and tried to help him hobble to his room. Dean was luckily cooperating now because he was too preoccupied with his story, but try as he might, Castiel couldn't completely tune everything out. He still heard certain key words and phrases that he never wanted to, like "her ass, man, you wouldn't _believe_ " and "the way she went down on me, jesus christ..."

Castiel's patience, seemingly infinite as it was, was finally wearing thin.

He plopped Dean down on the bed, which temporarily cut off his story with an _oof_. If Castiel was feeling vindictive, he might have even left Dean there to fend for himself. But as always, Dean was first priority. So Castiel stayed to help Dean get out of his clothes, chest twisting tighter and tighter at every newly uncovered hickey and lipstick mark, accompanied by Dean's never ending stream of poisonous words, undeterred by the earlier brief setback of being tossed down on the bed. Drunken Dean took hints as well as Castiel did on his normal days, and that was saying something.

Somewhere in there, Dean had finally fallen into silence as Castiel worked down his pants, trying his hardest not to think about the half-hard organ that was so close to his face (Castiel knew it was half hard because he hadn't been able to resist just one glance). Castiel couldn't tell if Dean had finished his story or not, but he honestly didn't care. Silence was golden.

Castiel straightened back up only to find Dean staring at him, eyes surprisingly thoughtful. Castiel had to look away.

"Lie down," he said, and Dean wordlessly complied, still staring. This was perhaps more unsettling than the tale of his sexual escapades had been. Dean was many things when drunk, including tactless to the point of hurtful, but he was seldom quiet.

Castiel made sure he was lying the right way, on his side. He could feel Dean's eyes following his every movement, and he almost wanted to urge Dean to continue this story—which was absolutely ridiculous. But at least Castiel's heart breaking to pieces was better than Dean being so utterly out of character.

"Cas?" Dean asked quietly as Castiel straightened back up, ready to leave. His tone was so serious and subdued, so different from his demeanor mere minutes ago.

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel asked, pausing and giving his roommate his full attention.

"Women are stupid," Dean observed petulantly, and it was such an odd comment, so utterly out of place, that it almost forced a laugh out of Castiel—because what the hell was going on with his life right now?

"Uh," Castiel replied, unsure of how to answer when Dean didn't continue. Women weren't stupid, of course, but Castiel did sometimes wish Dean were more amenable to dating both genders. However, before Castiel could come up with a suitable answer, Dean saved him the trouble.

"Go on a date with me, Cas," Dean said out of nowhere, so quietly that Castiel was almost sure he'd made it up. Castiel froze.

"Uh?" Castiel squeaked, more confused than before. "D-Dean, go to bed," Castiel urged, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Please," Castiel added quietly, almost begging. He didn't need these stupid temptations. Couldn't the universe just finish having its laugh already?

"No," Dean said resolutely, staring Castiel down so hard that he had to look up. The fire in Dean's eyes was almost enough to make Castiel step back. If Castiel didn't know any better, he'd have said that Dean was sober.

"Not until you say yes," Dean said, not taking his eyes away. "Go out to dinner with me tomorrow, Cas. Like, six. Meet me at the park or somethin'." Dean urged, his words barely even slurring anymore, save for the occasional dragged out "s" and lengthened "r."

"Dean..." Castiel breathed, chest tightening up so much that he swore he was having a heart attack then and there. Dean couldn't possibly be asking this of him right now. But with the repetition, it was clear that Castiel hadn't misheard or made it up.

Worst of all, he was actually tempted to give in.

"Ask... Ask me again tomorrow, Dean," Castiel compromised. "Ask me when you're sober and you actually know what you're talking about." Because chances were, Dean wouldn't ask him again. That was why Castiel had to stay strong right now.

"I _do_ know," Dean argued back, frustrated and frowning at his roommate. He pursed his lips. Castiel glanced up to find Dean looking back at him beseechingly. All was quiet between the two of them for a moment before Dean finally broke the silence with three quiet words.

"Just say yes."

When Dean put it that way, it sounded so simple. It sounded as if saying yes would whisk away all of the problems of the past two years, all of the pain and the looking in from afar, all of the breakfasts Castiel had to spend hearing Dean talk about the women he'd met and the dates he went on the day before. Castiel was so damn tempted.

Castiel had a moment to keep thinking, but his body was already ahead of his mind. His body, which was so desperate to stop this pain, to feel all this yearning finally reciprocated, was reacting before Castiel could even stop himself.

"Yes," he breathed, letting his shoulders fall ever so slightly. It felt simultaneously like sealing a deal with the devil and like freeing his soul from its fetters. A very odd sensation, to say the least, and Castiel didn't know how he felt about it yet.

The smile Dean gave Castiel was enough to soothe Castiel's fears temporarily, however. It was so bright and happy, and for a moment, Castiel allowed himself the selfish thought of _I did that._

He really could get used to making Dean smile like that.

"Good," Dean replied with a grin. He smacked his lips together happily and snuggled down into the pillow, pulling the covers up higher. His eyes were twinkling as he blinked up at Cas, seemingly satisfied.

"Good night, Cas," Dean murmured sleepily—adorably. "You're a cool nerd. My cool nerd."

"Good night, Dean," Cas replied, heart fluttering at being called Dean's. He was still not sure what exactly had happened, but he'd take it. By god, he'd take it and run. Because wow, had Dean really asked him out on a date? Was he still dreaming, perhaps? Castiel pinched himself to make sure, but it did nothing except irritate his skin.

Well, then.

Floating in his thoughts, Castiel drifted over to pick up Dean's clothing from the ground. He put the jeans and outer plaid shirt in the hamper and the t-shirt in the sink, intending to treat it with some Tide stain remover before soaking it if necessary. Reaching behind the mirror, Castiel retrieved some Advil and refilled the glass out in the living room before bringing it back to Dean, who was thankfully already fast asleep. Dean really did look both gorgeous and cute at all hours, awake or asleep. The man was impossible.

A smile was on Castiel's lips by the time he got back to the sink, rolling up his own sleeves and getting to work. The lipstick didn't bother him much anymore, and neither did the perfume or any of the past women, because Dean had asked him out on a date! _Castiel_. On a _date_. With _Dean_. He still could barely believe it.

The stain didn't come out after the stain removal treatment, probably because it'd been there for so long. So Castiel soaked the shirt in an enzyme presoak and warm water. And although that meant that he had to stay up for another hour, because that was the general time frame for a presoak before immediate washing, Castiel found that he didn't mind all that much. He was going to go on a dinner date with Dean tomorrow, after all! That definitely made up for everything that had happened so far.

So despite his weariness, Castiel plopped himself down onto the couch with a good book for the hour long wait, not even fighting the grin on his lips. He'd been wary of it before, because Dean had been drunk, but the more he thought about it, the more he embraced it. Dean wouldn't have asked him if there wasn't something there lurking underneath his usual exterior, right? So maybe it wasn't so random after all. Dean really wanted Cas.

And Castiel was on top of the world.


	2. Communication At Its Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These dorks are so terrible at talking. Jesus Christ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any grammatical "errors" in Dean's section (such as the "who/whom" lack of differentiation) is purposeful, because I figured he's not the type of guy who is going to say "whom," just like he's not the type of guy to call Cas "Castiel," so there's no "Castiel" in this chapter. Just "Cas."
> 
> That being said, my natural writing style is far closer to Cas than to Dean, so that's why I still can't help but write words like "thus" and "thereafter," even though I can't ever imagine Dean saying that stuff. That's probably why I RP Castiel hahaha.

Dean thought he was captured by aliens. That was the only reason he could think of for why it would be so blindingly bright when he blinked his eyes open, as if operating table lights were shining down upon him. Plus, there were loud rumbling noises and clanking in the distance, like an engine muffled through the decks or someone operating a far-off machine.

Blinking slowly and wincing, Dean rolled over to encounter soft springiness. Okay. Well, that certainly was not stereotypical of an alien operating table. And neither was the sideways car model that was staring at him from a shelf across the room. As Dean's vision cleared, he glanced about him through squinting eyes, slowly taking in the scenery. Oh. The car model wasn't sideways. He was. That made more sense.

With a groan and more wincing, Dean slowly sat up, his tongue feeling like swollen sandpaper, the worst combination. "Cas...?" he rasped, his own whispers already too loud. Screw talking; Dean would just go find his roommate.

Of course as chance would have it, the moment he stood up, Dean had to make a mad stumble out the door and to the bathroom at the end of the hall, practically throwing himself on the little rug in front of the toilet as the contents of his stomach emptied into the bowl. His head was heavy and swimming, the sudden movements causing huge bursts of pain all over his head.

Dean groaned and laid his cheek down on the cold plastic of the toilet seat, too pained to care about the dirtiness of it. Plus, Cas was the saint that kept the whole place spotless, so honestly, Dean's face was probably dirtying the plastic, not the other way around.

Waiting a bit to let his breathing calm down after hurling so much, Dean closed his eyes, shutting out the brightness. Jesus Christ, he'd drunken way too much last night. But for the life of him, he could figure out why the hell he seemed to be at home right now, tucked into his bed and not slumped over in some alleyway or passed out in his baby.

When Dean finally felt somewhat normal again, he stood up with slow and labored movements, one hand on the sink for support. He felt like some senior citizen in need of a walker. Flushing the toilet with a frown of disgust, Dean rinsed his mouth out in the sink before splashing some cold water on his face. It didn't help the hangover.

With shuffling feet this time, Dean returned to his room, feeling more and more sluggish with every dragging step. His lethargy was compounded by the desire never to move again in order not to disturb his throbbing head. On his bedside table, he found a tall glass of water and two pills of ibuprofen, and he could immediately piece together why he was safe and comfortable in his bed instead of at some woman's (Amber's? Amanda's?) house. Cas had helped him.

God, he must have returned at some ungodly hour last night, yet Cas had still gotten out of bed and taken the time to care for Dean. Or worse, Cas might have gone to _get_ Dean, which was even worse. If that wasn't the mark of the best friend in the world that Dean didn't deserve, he didn't know what was.

Dean popped the pills into his mouth and downed the whole glass of water in several large gulps. The brief glance at his clock told him it was barely seven in the morning, just after dawn. Cas, the considerate angel, had closed the shades too. The brightness from earlier had just been Dean's heightened sensitivity. If not for Cas, he would probably have been blinded with sunlight.

Dean swore to himself that he'd properly thank Cas later when he woke up for the second time. But for now, he just snuggled back into his blankets, letting his eyes fall shut as he waited this headache out, trying to drown out the mysterious distant rumbling of machinery. He was feeling much better now that his stomach was empty and there were water and ibuprofen replacing the horrors in his system.

Thank god for Castiel Novak.

 

* * *

 

When Dean blinked his eyes open the second time, it was much better. The wooziness in his brain had cleared up, taking the insistently throbbing pain with it and leaving nothing but fresh clarity behind. It was definitely later in the day now, judging from the brightness outside. His clock read 10:37 AM. Definitely time to get up.

With much greater ease and alacrity this time around, Dean got out of bed. This was the first time he noticed that he only had boxers on—which was a little weird. The last time Dean had come back a bit drunk and Cas had helped him into bed (which had been ages ago, might Dean add), Cas had left his t-shirt on. Huh. Well, whatever.

Dean padded over to his closet and retrieved some comfortable drawstring flannel pants and a Led Zeppelin tee before walking out into the hallway. His nose immediately sniffed the air, a smile growing on his face as he discerned bacon. Yum. But first, he turned right and headed for the bathroom, where he promptly eased his bladder pressure with a sigh.

As he washed his hands, Dean looked up into the mirror to assess the damage from last night—and he froze, the warm water wasted as it ran over his unmoving hands. His eyes traced over the visible lipstick marks and hickeys on his neck, trailing down past the collar and into the shirt. Shit. He switched off the water and grabbed for the toilet paper, bunching it up and rubbing at his neck, desperately trying to get it off, feeling so frustrated with himself. Cas had probably seen that. He must have seen that. Fuck.

When it was clear that scrubbing at it with toilet paper wasn't going to get him anywhere (at least not anywhere fast), Dean decided to abandon that method altogether, stripping off his clothing and jumping in the shower instead. He didn't even bother waiting for the cold water to warm up, too desperate to get clean.

Stupid, stupid Dean.

Shuddering as the cold pelted his calves, Dean leaned his head against the far wall of the tub, eyes closed as he chided himself for having been so idiotic last night. He shouldn't have come home, shouldn't have let Cas see him like that. Drunk or not, what the hell had he been thinking?

Dean's mind raced through all the events of the previous night, but it was all pretty spotty. He'd finished work, the last item of the day being the final touches on the main car he'd been working on, a 1960 Mercedes Benz 190SL, all sleek black with the new paint job. His team had spent two months working on it, which was fast considering the state it'd come into the garage.

A woman had come to pick it up, as a friend of the owner (with proof, of course). God, what was her name again? Something starting with an "A." Amy? Ashley? Anyway, she'd come to get it, and Dean was the last one in the garage, with Ash, Vic, Jo and the rest already having left. One thing led to another, and the next thing Dean remembered, Cas had called him while he was in her bed, half naked and huffing.

Fuck, that phone call had been traumatizing.

It was Dean's fault, really. That was what he got by sleeping around in an effort to forget that he was, you know, in love with his best friend. Drink to forget. Fuck to forget. But as of the total running tally over the past eight months or so (ever since he'd realized his feelings), neither of those methods were really working all that well. Still, they were far better than some crazy alternatives, like, you know, confessing to Cas or something. Ha. That'd get him kicked out of this apartment for sure, not to mention this amazing friendship would be squashed like a bug under Dean's shoe.

When the water warmed up enough, Dean stepped back and soaped up a washcloth. He started at his neck, rubbing the area until he was sure it was clean, probably scrubbed red raw but Dean didn't care. He was so fucking stupid for having come back here last night. He should have known better than to go out and get drunk in the first place, but in his defense, the drunkenness had only happened _after_ that phone call. The call itself had been a rude awakening to Dean that had made him rethink what he was doing, where he was and who he was with. In the end, he'd decided to hit a bar and get wasted over his stupid unrequited feelings, though, rather than go home and see the one person he was angsting over. Now in hindsight, Dean could see he'd been dumber than dirt. That had been a terrible decision—or at least coming back here before he'd sobered up was.

Aside from a few snippets at the bar, of drinking shot after shot then talking to some chick then getting into his baby—possibly with a different chick—Dean remembered nothing else. He didn't remember getting home, nor did he remember going back to someone else's place. Crap, did they do it in the back seat of his baby? Dean hoped not. He hated the scent of that annoyingly clingy cheap perfume, the one he'd smelled a bit in his room when he'd gotten up. His nice leather upholstery better not be reeking of that shit or he'd never forgive himself—and probably his baby would never forgive him too.

Dean scrubbed down his whole body, feeling so dirty for having slept around yet again. He knew that it wasn't helping, that nothing was getting better in terms of his stupid feelings, but he saw no way out of it. He'd thought about telling Castiel before, but then laughed at his own hopeful gullibility before he could get the chance. As if Castiel would actually say yes to a date, as if he would actually have _feelings_ for Dean. He was an incredibly intelligent assistant professor of religion at the local university, for God's sake. Smoking sexy yet so adorably cute all the damn time, his eyes like whole sapphire galaxies, so deep and knowledgeable. Add that to the perpetual sex hair and the voice like amber honey slowly melting over gravel, a voice which never failed to make Dean shiver every time he heard it, and it was no wonder Dean was in love. He couldn't believe it'd taken him all the way until eight months ago to realize it, but he'd definitely believe it even less if someone told him Castiel would actually return those feelings.

With a sigh, Dean got out of the shower, his body reddened with slight irritation from all the scrubbing. He wished he could say he felt cleaner, but a dirtied soul full of booze and sins took a lot more than a shower to cleanse. He toweled himself off quickly and got back into his comfortable clothes, his mildly good mood now a little tainted by the memories of yesterday—along with the fear of what could have happened in the dearth of memories thereafter. As he walked toward the inviting smell of bacon and the comforting sounds of Cas pitter-pattering around the kitchen, he could only hope that he hadn't fucked things up too badly.

Dean turned the corner, hand rubbing through his damp hair, not sure what to expect. He stopped when he caught sight of Cas, back turned toward Dean as he continued to cook at the stove, NPR quietly playing on the iPad mounted on the wall—the iPad that Dean had bought and set up there for him a few months ago for his birthday. Cas, friggin' adorable as always, had gone completely quiet when he saw it. He'd stared at it for so long that Dean thought he'd messed up, until Cas had turned to him and given him the most heart-melting smile ever, his "thank you" dripping with such heartfelt sincerity that Dean had to look away. Jesus Christ on a tortilla, the things this man did to Dean.

The bacon was already plated on their mahogany table, along with a glass of OJ for Dean and a cup of water for Cas. The sunlight was shining through the large windows, the beams lighting up the whole open space from the living room to the small dining room/kitchen combo, the dust motes gently floating in the air like a scene straight out of one of those artsy French movies Cas liked so much. It was perfect, down to the apron that Cas was wearing, tied in a perfect bow behind his back. It was a vibrant dark blue, the perfect shade that brought out Cas's eyes. That was the reason it was Dean's favorite color, and the reason why Dean bought it for Cas, though Cas never needed to know that.

Cas flipped the pancake with a smooth, practiced flick of the pan. He hummed along with the interlude music between NPR shows, lost in his own peaceful world. Dean could watch this scene forever. It was so utterly domestic that it twisted at Dean's heart.

God, he loved this man so much.

Dean approached, still a bit edgy because he wasn't sure what the damage was from last night. Still, Cas didn't seem to be in a bad mood. He was cooking quite a hearty breakfast, after all. And judging from the table set up, he was not only eating with Dean, but sitting near Dean too, so that was good, right? He hadn't fucked up too badly, then?

But all those lipstick stains and hickeys had probably given Cas the completely wrong impression—even though it was the truth, so maybe that meant it was the right impression after all...? Ugh, Dean was getting so confused and tired of these games he was playing. He wished he could just stop running away, but he was too scared of the backlash. Oh how proud his dad would be of him right now, Dean Winchester, John's bisexual coward of a son. Well, lucky for Dean, the man couldn't really judge him from the grave. Or if he could, Dean didn't give a damn.

"Morning, Cas," Dean murmured, walking around the small table and over to his roommate. He cleared his throat a little bit, voice hoarse from dryness and disuse.

Cas looked up, and the smile on his lips was so heartwarming that Dean felt the caution almost physically drain out of him, immediately replaced by a sense of wellbeing from just looking at Cas's smile. He definitely hadn't screwed things up too much, then.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas replied, eyes crinkling up at the edges in the way Dean loved so much. Whatever it was, Cas was certainly in a very good mood. Maybe he hadn't noticed all the lipstick and hickeys—although it was only in Dean's dreams that Cas would have been bothered by those things in the first place. More likely than not, Cas _had_ noticed, but just didn't care, wasn't jealous, wasn't emotionally invested whatsoever in that sense. God damn it, Cas was perfectly fine.

Dean's method hadn't always been "fuck to forget." It'd started with him trying to get Cas jealous, trying to see if he could irk Cas or ruffle any of those patient, academic feathers. Turned out that bothering Cas was nigh impossible, or that, more likely, Cas just didn't see Dean in a way that would cause him to be jealous. He always listened with open ears, no matter how many illicit details Dean managed to put into his one night stand stories, which got raunchier and raunchier with every new telling. He always went with Dean to bars where he allowed women practically to give Dean lap dances without even batting an eyelash. It had honestly gotten to be so frustrating that Dean had stopped inviting Cas to bars altogether, preferring just to go alone so he could wallow in the fact that his best friend, gay man that he was, just wasn't into Dean specifically. Dean just didn't make the cut. Fuck if that didn't hurt sometimes.

“Did you sleep well?” Cas asked, plating the last of the pancakes before turning off the flame.

“Well, you know how it is,” Dean said with a smile and a shrug. “Waking up the second time was much better.”

“You woke up a first time?” Cas asked, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry if the laundry was too loud,” Cas apologized. So _that_ was what that engine-esque sound had been, Dean thought. The dryer.

“It's just that I had to wash all the lipstick stains away before they settled,” Cas continued. Aaannd that explained the shirtless thing.

Dean blinked at Cas. He'd said it so calmly. Cooly. With that little trademark apologetic frown of his but nothing else unusual. He’d said it without even missing a beat—Dean knew, because he was looking for it, looking for that sign that the lipstick had bothered Cas, that Dean sleeping around bothered him. But there was nothing. Nada.

Of course there wasn’t.

“No, don’t worry, man,” Dean replied with ease, hoping he didn’t betray his tinge of disappointment. "Gave me a chance to take the painkillers, anyway. Thanks for that, by the way, and uh, for... you know," Dean said awkwardly, shrugging a bit and looking away. "Thanks for being there for me even when... I'm not all there myself," he finally said, quietly and with a small chuckle. He sucked at these "serious" talks, so he always had to make it into some sort of roundabout joke, but he knew that Cas knew that. He just hoped that Cas understood what he meant this time. And Cas seemed to, like he always did, because he just had that way of getting Dean like no one else. Dean was so damn lucky to have Cas in his life.

"You're welcome," Cas replied with an even wider smile, before passing the plates of pancakes to Dean, saying, "Do you mind taking these to the table? I have to get the butter and syrup."

"Sure thing."

Dean noticed that Cas had placed all the pancake batter in a squeeze bottle, the type people usually used for condiments, and whoa—Cas had made friggin’ _art_ pancakes. Dean had never seen those before. They were in different shapes and outlines, in leaves and pumpkins and apples to fit in with the autumn theme, Dean guessed. Jesus, Cas was going all out. Something great must have happened.

Soon enough, they were sitting down, Dean dousing his pancakes in syrup as always and Cas with his cute little side dish, which he occasionally dipped into with a well-cut slice if he wanted some sweetness. Dean rubbed at one of the scuff marks on the table with some saliva on his thumb. He really should sand this down and revarnish it at some point.

Dean stuffed the first forkful in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Jesus, you know how to cook," Dean groaned, sighing through his mouthful.

"Thank you," Cas replied, "though I should hope you know by now my name is actually Castiel."

Dean blinked at Cas and then broke into laughter, shaking his head. Cas was too much sometimes. His humor was wry and dry, but Dean loved it. He loved it so much.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said with the last of his chuckles, waving Cas's sarcasm off with a fork. "So," he began, reaching over for a slice of bacon, crisped to perfection, "what's got you in such a good mood?"

Cas paused, his smile faltering a bit, and Dean had to wonder if he'd said something wrong.

"You don't—?" Castiel began, but Dean's phone rang.

"Hold on," Dean said. "Sorry, gimme a sec." He pulled out his phone, checked the caller ID, and then whipped it up to his ear, grin on his face.

"Sammy! What's happenin'?" Dean nodded along as his brother spoke. It turned out that Sam just wanted to check in about plans for next weekend, when he was finally coming over from NY to pay his old bro a visit.

"Sounds good," Dean replied, agreeing with everything and having a grand old time catching up—that was, until he glanced at Cas to see that he'd gone quiet and stopped eating.

Shit.

"Hey, Sammy, I, uh... I gotta go. Call you back later?" Dean said, brows furrowed with worry.

"Sure thing," Sammy replied, voice tinny over the line. "See you in a week. Don't be a stranger, jerk."

"Later, bitch."

Dean silenced his phone and put it back in his pocket, frowning as his mind raced through how he'd possibly fucked this morning up. Since when did asking someone about their good mood make it turn sour?

"Cas, uh, you okay?" Dean asked weakly, setting his fork down, too. He sure as hell wasn't going to enjoy all this amazing food alone. When Cas stayed silent, Dean continued, "Look, I'm sorry if I—"

"Dean," Cas began, quiet but strong, shutting Dean up immediately. When Cas looked up, his eyes were calm but serious, earnest. "Did you mean it?" Cas asked. "Did you mean what you said last night?"

"Uh..." Shit. Dean's mind was sprinting through the memories, trying to get at anything that could have happened. He barely remembered getting into his baby last night after the bar. The rest was a blur. But maybe, if it hadn't been a dream, he might have said something about Cas being his favorite nerd? Or a cool nerd or something? So...

"Yeah," Dean replied, hoping he was correct. He just wanted Cas's smile back. He cleared his throat. "Hell yeah, I meant it," he said again, with much more emphasis this time. If he was going to do it at all, he was gonna go all the way. Cas was a damn cool nerd _and_ Dean's favorite nerd, so fuck yeah, he meant that. He just hoped that was what Cas had been asking about, though he couldn't see any reason why Cas would be so worked up about something so trivial if that were the case.

It seemed like Dean had said the right thing, though, because Cas's shoulders visibly relaxed. A small smile returned to his lips as he looked back down at the table. "Good," Cas said quietly, "because for a moment there, I thought..." Cas took a deep breath. "Never mind."

Cas looked up at Dean again, cerulean eyes brighter this time, reflecting the sun from the window. "So you're still good for six? At Sunrise?"

Dean would have been good for anything, honestly, if it meant Cas was in his happy place again. So he replied before he could think.

"Of course." He nodded, keeping a smile on his face as his mind struggled to remember more. What the hell did that have to do with being a cool nerd? Six what? Six people? Six napkins? The friggin' M. Night Shyamalan Sixth Sense? Fuck it if he knew. Maybe six AM tomorrow at sunrise, even though Dean was pretty sure sunrise was more six-thirty-ish these days. Well, whatever it was, he couldn't ask Cas now, otherwise it'd blow his whole cover. Plus, Cas was fucking excited _and_ happy. Dean would be the Devil himself if he took that away from his best friend now, especially when Cas had been in such bad moods recently (probably because school was boring as fuck, and he'd picked that for a _job_ , which was a life Dean never understood). But whatever it was, Dean was desperate to get that smile back in any way he could. So he'd figure out what "six at sunrise" meant on his own. Easy peasy.

"Great," Cas said, exuding happiness like Dean hadn't seen him do in months. Damn, whatever he'd said last night, it'd been the opposite of a fuck up. It'd been a rare stroke of genius or something. Now if only Dean could remember.

"I'm looking forward to it," Cas said, taking a sip of his water, unable to fight his smile even as his lips hugged the rim of the glass. And of course, Dean was too proud of having put that smile there to say anything but, "Me too."

Dean took another bite and his eyes happened to glaze over the calendar on the wall (Cas liked to keep a classic paper one, crossing each day off with a big red "X" like they did in the movies). His mouth hung open, food half chewed as he did a double take on the date. Shit.

“Fuck,” Dean said aloud, swallowing quickly and wincing from the indigestion. Cas paused his bite and looked up, concerned.

“What is it?” Cas asked, setting his loaded fork back down on the edge of the plate in order to listen properly.

Dean glanced between Cas and the calendar, his mind drawing a blank because he’d messed up so much, he didn’t even know what to think. Yesterday had been Friday, as in movie night Friday. And Dean had not only forgotten, but had gone out to have his own fun, likely leaving Cas at home alone to wait. And then he’d come home drunk later on and Cas, the friggin' _saint_ , had taken care of him in spite of that. God, Dean didn’t deserve Cas at all.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean apologized, taking a deep breath. “Shit, I... I’m sorry I forgot yesterday was Friday.” Dean winced internally, not sure how Cas would react. He seemed to be in a good mood despite yesterday, so a) whatever Dean had said had been pure gold, and b) Cas was just proving yet again how patient and wonderful he was that he was even tolerating any of this. Dean would have at least been grumpy.

“Oh,” Cas replied, looking down at his plate with an unreadable expression. He blinked a bit and then shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean insisted, running a hand through his hair and leaning back. “Jesus,” he breathed, shaking his head. He would have laughed at how unbelievable this was, were he not so fucking pissed at himself.

“Don’t know why you put up with this crap,” Dean muttered.

Cas frowned and his eyes ignited with that passionate light Dean sometimes saw. It meant he was about to say something he believed in to the core, something he would swear by to the grave.

“Dean,” Cas said, “you are _not_ crap.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Cas cut him off with a look. “You are absolutely wonderful, and though there are some inconveniences sometimes, I wouldn’t have you any other way. I...” Cas looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it, lapsing into silence and staring at Dean, waiting for an answer.

Dean swallowed. Cas sure had a way with words. Sometimes Cas just said these things that were so... out of place, so open and frank, and Dean had thought it sort of unsettlingly weird at first, because who said crap like that? But then the more he got used to it, the more endearing it became. It was just another one of the quirks that made Cas so... _Cas_.

Dean definitely wouldn’t have Cas any other way either.

“Gee, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy,” Dean _wanted_ to answer, but what came out of his mouth was a rare moment of seriousness.

“I, uh... Thanks,” Dean murmured, looking away. He swallowed, knowing his cheeks were blazing red. “Listen, I’ll make it up to you, all right?”

Cas smiled at that, which was unexpected. “I know you will,” he replied, eyes twinkling as if he were in on some great secret. Dean felt like he should have understood, should have done that weird twinkly eye shit right back, but for the life of him, he had no idea what Cas meant. He was good at faking it, though, so he chuckled a bit to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," he replied, even tossing a wink in for good measure. He figured that was enough to have the intended effect.

It turned out he was right, and Cas laughed, picking up his fork again. Maybe it was Dean’s imagination, but Cas seemed to blush a bit too, a pinkish hue coloring his stubble beautifully as he took his next bite. Then again, it was probably the lighting playing tricks on Dean’s eyes. No way was Cas blushing because of Dean. That was Dean’s job, to blush because of Cas instead. And he did that probably too much, to be honest. Thank god for tan skin hiding it well.

After that, breakfast went off without a hitch. There was a lot of lighthearted talking about Cas's students and their midterm papers, which Cas was in the middle of grading right now. There was this rebellious know-it-all by the name of Ruby, who loved to reference the Devil in everything she wrote. Cas was having a blast by gently (read: passive-aggressively) telling her to widen her horizons and open her mind to other facets of religion beyond the satanic and demonic. He did admit, though, that she certainly had some very interesting ideas about how Hell worked.

Dean talked about the new car that had come in two days ago (which he hadn't had a chance to tell Cas about yet because he'd... well, he'd been gone the past two nights, doing unsavory things in an effort to drown out his stupid feelings). The car was a 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra that basically made Dean fall down on his knees the moment it rolled in. Dean usually did consultations first, but he knew immediately the moment it rolled up that he _had_ to take this one. Michael, the owner, had inherited it and figured he ought to fix it up in order to sell it. Dean had made a promise that he'd fix it up so well that Michael would never want to part with it. It was a tall order, but Dean had a pretty huge budget (practically a blank check), so he was excited to start. Castiel seemed excited for him too, and Dean couldn't remember the last time they'd had such an easy conversation so full of smiles and laughter, without Dean mentioning a woman to try to get Cas jealous, or Cas finishing up quickly because he had so much work to do.

Dean missed this so much.

Eventually, they had to clean up and get on with the day. Dean cleared the plates and Cas washed (hey, the guy found it soothing, and Dean wasn't gonna argue). They moved perfectly in tandem, drifting around each other in the kitchen as if the two of them were meant to inhabit the space together, as if it would be too empty without the both of them there. It was times like this that made Dean truly believe they were meant for each other—the sappiest friggin' thought ever, he knew; sign him up for the next Notting Hill now. But luckily, he never had to reveal it because Cas didn't feel the same way anyway, so Dean was safe.

"I have to go run a few errands," Cas said, turning off the water as he put the last of the plates on the drying rack. "If I'm not back in time, then I'll meet you there?"

"Sure," Dean replied, glad that his back was toward Cas as he wiped down the table, because honest to god, he had no idea what Cas was talking about. He'd have to spend some quality time with his memory (or hopefully maybe his texts?) to gain some info.

"Great," Cas said, drying off his hands and heading off to get properly dressed, hanging his apron up on the way. "Take it easy today," Cas said with an indulging smile and a light chuckle. "You had a rough night last night, after all." Yet, Cas didn't seem irritated by it. Well, he was seldom ever irritated, but this was like, buzzing with joy. Jesus, what had Dean _said_?

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, mock saluting Cas as he walked past. They went to their respective rooms, where Dean promptly plopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, brows furrowed as he tried to slough through his memories, attempting to fit the enigma of "six at sunrise" and Cas being a nerd into that whole drunken mess. Plus, where was he supposed to meet Cas? When?

Dean remained that way until he heard some movement outside in the hall, followed by a yell from Cas. "Good bye, Dean! I'll see you later!"

"Enjoy your errands," Dean called back, rolling over to his side to stare at his car model. Cas had gotten that for him on a whim as he was out shopping one day. Cas was so generous and considerate, it was a miracle he'd been best friends with selfish and lazy Dean Winchester for three years already. Dean couldn't figure out how he'd managed to hold on to Cas for so long.

Dean rolled around a bit more before he got restless and pulled himself back out of bed. He wasn't gonna figure out any of this stuff by tossing and turning. Dean grabbed his laptop and reached for his phone. He could at least get his mind warmed up by starting to gather together the parts for Michael's Shelby. A few calls here and there to various warehouses (hard core people picked up their business calls on Saturday) and who knew? Somewhere in there, Dean might just get a clue as to what the fuck "six at sunrise" and Cas being Dean's cool nerd had to do with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [GOOGLE MICHAEL'S CAR](https://www.google.com/search?q=1966+Shelby+427+Cobra&safe=off&es_sm=119&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=j0ikVJyyC8PwoATTvYJ4&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAg&biw=1595&bih=894). Seriously. I already gave you the link, so just click to behold its beauty. It's damn gorgeous, and it's one of my favorites (I love classic cars too).


End file.
